For a long moment, I thought he would refuse. Then, he finally dipped his head in silent assent. I didn’t quite believe my appeal had worked until we were back inside the central cottage with the fire dancing merrily in the hearth.
I kept a wary eye on him as I dug out the medical kit. His hands were in terrible shape. I sat down on the bench, resting my crutches on the floor, before I looked up at Mathias. “Would you sit with me?”
He was moving oddly, almost as though he were fighting himself to do so. But, he did sit beside me. I picked up his hands and carefully cleaned them with a disinfectant before dabbing ointment on the cuts and abrasions. He was still sweating but his hands were steady.
“Maybe you should find a doctor. They can help with this type of illness.”
“What type?”
The words were cool and there was a hint of tightness around his eyes. I kept my tone gentle and calm as I replied, “Withdrawal. Maybe you had too much tea trying to stay awake all the time?”
I hoped the little bit of teasing would keep him from feeling threatened. But, his eyes turned almost as icy as they had been in his fights. “I am not in withdrawal, Hope.”
“You were tearing apart a fireplace, Mathias,” I countered, still keeping my voice steady. I searched his eyes as I added, “That is not a good sign. What were you looking for?”
“Pills.”
I sucked in a breath, but said nothing. So it was a withdrawal. He hadn’t seemed the type and it . . . disappointed me. My heart ached for his suffering. Especially if my suspicions were true and my presence had contributed to his need for whatever pill he had been taking.
“Not drugs.”
I looked up from his hands. The iciness in his gaze had faded slightly. “What do you mean?”
“The pills are an herbal mix. Help me. They help me with my control.”
My grip on his hands tightened slightly as I debated what to say. If he was what I suspected, then there were some doctors who specialized in helping control their volatile reactions. “Mathias. Have you considered going to a doctor for help? I’ve read about the studies, the ones designed to help paranormals like you keep better control over your . . . instincts.”
Mathias stared at me. The iciness in his eyes faded a little more. “What kind of paranormal do you think I am?”
I hated saying it, but all the signs pointed to it. I took a deep breath and then whispered, “Berserker.”
When he didn’t reply, I darted a cautious glance at him. He was staring at me in what could only be described as shock and, well, amusement. The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Berserker.”
I nodded. Then because I couldn’t help myself, I leaned toward him. “Is there anything I can do to help? Maybe a, umm, a tea of some sort? You always have tea with you. Does it help with your control?”
Mathias reached up running his hand over his scruffy jaw. Then he rose from the bench shrugging out of his coat as he did so. Oh I really hoped he wasn’t going to run outside again.
He dug around in the extra pack and pulled out a tea kettle naturally. Then, he extracted a tea tin from his own bag. That seemed very Mathias. If he didn’t go running out into the dark again, perhaps the worst was over.
After heating the kettle, however, he took it into the bedroom before returning to heat it once again. Then, he poured the hot water into a basin he had sitting on the table. He carried the basin to a stand in the other corner of the room and tugged his sweater over his head. I stared a little too long at his lean but muscular torso. There was no doubt that Mathias was in excellent physical condition. Cheeks heating, I picked my crutches up and muttered an excuse I didn’t even understand before grabbing my own bag and hobbling back to the bedroom. I closed the door and leaned back against it. Now was not the time to be distracted by Mathias’ looks any more than his accent, which still seemed delicious to me despite days of hearing both English and Scottish accents in abundance.
I managed to collect my thoughts, if barely, and hobbled further into the room. I stopped short when I spied the basin of water resting on a small stand. Steam still rose in lazy tendrils from its surface. Maybe Mathias wasn’t as far gone as I feared.
The thought brought tears to my eyes, and I blinked them away. It was ridiculous to get teary over such a small thing. But, I didn’t waste any time either. I found my amenities bag and quickly washed up and changed into fresh clothes. The one thing I was grateful for with the switch to a wrap and brace was that I was able to wear jeans with far more ease. As long as they weren’t skinny jeans. I tugged on a deep blue sweater and still felt cold. So, I added a slate grey men’s sweater on top that swallowed my frame and hung to my knees.
I hesitated in the room for several long minutes as I tried to decide if Mathias would be fully dressed again. After several more minutes, I finally dared to open my door a crack. Mathias was nowhere to be seen and, feeling a little foolish that the sight of him shirtless had flustered me so badly, I grit my teeth and opened the door wide before hobbling out.
Mathias was crouched in front of the fireplace feeding the flames. He was also fully dressed, his light brown hair darker now as it was still wet. The cable sweater he had changed into was a creamy white and it molded to his long lean frame. One of my crutches caught on the edge of the table, and I barely caught myself before I fell.
What was wrong with me? I hadn’t reacted to him like this since I finally grew accustomed to the 10 over his head. Looking back, perhaps that was the reason we were in this situation. I let his nonthreatening and practically gentle approach get under my guard and now . . . Well, now the veneer was cracking.
After situating my crutches, I looked up to find Mathias watching me. His blue-green eyes had changed to the palest shade of blue and he was clean shaven once more. Except for the shadows beneath his eyes, one would have a difficult time determining anything was wrong with him. I didn’t quite know how to proceed so I only slipped into the chair on the far side of the table from where he was standing.
Mathias set a mug in front of me before setting out bowls and a chunk of bread. It was only then that I realized he had heated some sort of stew. It was good, warm and filling, but it didn’t succeed in distracting me from my worries. I pushed my empty bowl away and watched Mathias silently. I toyed with my mug, dragging my fingertips over and around the handle. “Does this happen a lot?”
There was a long silence but when I looked up, fearful I had insulted him, Mathias actually looked amused. Irritation flared hot, and I set my mug down harder than I should have. “I can’t believe you think this is funny,” I hissed in a low voice. “Do you have any idea how much you scared me? Running into the dark like that and then acting like you’re in withdrawal? And, all because you wouldn’t tell me that you’re a berserker.”
The amusement vanished and his eyes seemed colder again as he set his own mug down. “Lauren, believe me when I say that I am most certainly not a berserker out of the Scandinavian and Norse tales.” His accent grew stronger as he added in a tone I could only describe as haughty, “I have never been held captive by the unhinged blind fury they suffer. There is no cunning there, only pure rage rampaging without check. Such displays are considered . . . an embarrassment by my people.” He paused suddenly and the haughtiness faded to be replaced by something much chillier. “Not that there are many of my people left. Still, it is the principle of the matter.”
As he pushed back from the table, I could only stare at him. “What are you then?”
Mathias hesitated with his back to me and he turned his head just enough for me to see his profile as he replied softly, “You don’t want to know that answer.”
He cleaned out the bowls and set them aside to dry. As he came back to the table and refilled our mugs, I finally broke my silence. “I deserve to know.”
“What do you mean?”
I fixed him with a stern look as he drew back once more. I kept my voice calm and gentle, but it still trembled a little with
emotion as I repeated myself. “I deserve to know. Your heritage is affecting you, and it is not fair to me that I am left in the dark. You know what I am. All I know about you is that you are a 10, you’re extremely British, and you are overly fond of tea.”
“Being overly fond of tea is not possible,” Mathias countered, almost sounding like himself in that moment. Then his tone hardened as he stated, “You do not want to know what I am, Hope. It’s too dangerous.”
“At this point in time, I feel it is more dangerous for me not to know. Something is wrong with you, and I can’t even help because I don’t understand what it is or why it is happening to you. If it is not caused by your heritage, then tell me now and I will let the matter alone.”
“I am not having this conversation.”
I jumped from my seat and hobbled around the corner of the table so I could reach across and grasp his hand. “Mathias, please!”
He stared at my hand, then at me. Then, he grasped my hand and broke my grip with utter gentleness. He stepped away from the table putting himself safely out of range of my touch. It was only then that he broke the heavy silence. “You don’t need to know, Lauren.”
“I am stuck in a glen somewhere in the Scottish Highlands because you weren’t behaving in a completely rational manner. After everything we have been through together since Olympia, I would think that I have earned that information. I cannot help you if I do not understand what is happening.” I took a breath as the furious rush of whispered words trickled to a halt and then another. “At this point, Mathias, you could tell me you knew how to reopen the portals to Faerie and are descended from the lost Fae and all I would say to you is ‘How do I help you’ because that is all I want right now. To help you.”
Mathias was silent for a long moment. Then, he gave a humorless chuckle. “Lauren, you have no idea what you are asking. I am certainly not connected to the lost Fae.” His mouth firmed into a line before his gaze turned icy once more and his voice was cold enough to send a shiver down my spine as he stated, “My people were once known as the Myrmidons.”
I could only stare at him struggling to process what my ears were insisting I had heard. Myrmidons. But that was . . . That was impossible. They had been wiped out. All of them. I jerked my chin up, intent on asking Mathias for more information and if he was joking, only to see an empty space in front of me. A blast of cold air pulled my attention to the door. Mathias was shrugging on his coat as he went out not even looking back once. Then the door slammed shut. I hobbled back over to the nearest bench and sank down onto it, mind still reeling.
Myrmidon. But . . . No, he couldn’t be serious. They were all gone. And, for a very good reason. Mathias couldn’t be one of them. Could he?
* * *
Chapter Eight
Lauren
Mathias . . . A Myrmidon. It was . . . Well, it was impossible. Wasn’t it?
I shook my head as I scrubbed the mugs trying and failing to distract myself with the simple task. What Mathias had said, what he had actually claimed, it was quite simply impossible. There was no way on earth that he was actually a Myrmidon.
I mean I couldn’t even remember the last time someone mentioned the Myrmidon people. Not in this century anyway. Unless it was for a history of paranormal society. The Myrmidon people were extinct. They had been completely wiped out centuries ago. One man and one war led to the extinction of an entire paranormal species.
There was one story still passed down where every child among the paranormals learned of the dangers of lacking control. And that was of Achilles. The Myrmidon warrior led his fellow warriors into the chaos of war and nearly destroyed the heart of the civilized paranormal world with their reckless pursuit of fleeting glory. Achilles and the Myrmidons tipped the scales for the Trojan War in addition to Odysseus’ cunning tricks. Of course, Odysseus was rumored to share a bloodline with the Myrmidons as well as being a descendent of Hermes, which was perhaps why he felt compelled to fetch Achilles and bring him to fight at Troy.
The behavior of Achilles at Troy and the warriors he brought with him was so chaotic that the Fall of Troy led to a purge. Aimed at the Myrmidons because every other paranormal species rallied together to eradicate them for fear of another Achilles. That was one thing all the history books actually agreed on regarding the Trojan War and its aftermath. No one wanted to see another in the likeness of Achilles where madness combined with petulance to form a deadly fury no one could withstand.
As I stacked the dishes, I tried to ignore the ridiculous claim. It was too impossible to believe. Yet, every time I almost convinced myself Mathias had said it only to stop me from asking, the question came back to why any sane paranormal would claim to be a Myrmidon. No one wanted to be a Myrmidon. And, Mathias had never struck me as the type of man who would say just anything no matter how much he wanted a conversation to end.
After more debating and more attempts to make the cottage a little more livable by dusting and scrubbing the table, I was stuck with the same questions. Mathias hadn’t returned from wherever he had run off to, and I didn’t want to venture out into the cold again. He had seemed more aware of himself and his surroundings when he left this time, so the urgency to make sure he didn’t do anything foolish was no longer as strong.
Eventually, I caved and pulled the compendium out of Mathias’ bag. As I flipped through the pages to the rare and extinct section, I once again turned to the number scale. 9s and 10s were listed as the most dangerous paranormals, but 10s were confirmed to be eliminated after Hannibal of Carthage ravaged the Roman world and nearly conquered Rome herself. I pursed my lips. Whoever made the entry had not consulted with a Spotter before writing it. I flipped back to find the entry on Myrmidons. It was even less helpful than the entry about Spotters. A lot of focus on Achilles and not a lot about the species as a whole other than the fact Myrmidons were feared warriors who courted madness. Again, the chronicler had written in bold letters that the Myrmidons were extinct even though there was a note that Alexander the Great, another 10, had inherited some Myrmidon blood despite being Macedonian and a descendant of Heracles in addition to being born long after the end of the Myrmidons. Perhaps that was why his military cunning and ambition was nearly unparalleled. Myrmidons were supposed to be extinct . . . and so were the 10s. Yet, Mathias existed with a golden 10 always blazing above his head.
I closed the book as a thought occurred to me. It was possible that he wasn’t lying or delusional. But that meant accepting that somehow both 10s and Myrmidons survived the purges. Drumming my fingers against the book’s cover, I couldn’t help the wry thought that perhaps the paranormals should have worked harder to protect Spotters before we were struck by a purge too . . . if they truly wanted to be safe from the fiercest high numbers. It was enough to make one question why we hadn’t learned anything from our past. Now, however, I needed to try to find Mathias before he froze out there.
* * *
Mathias
I stormed away from the cottage, breath coming in harsh bursts. The only noise was that of the thin layer of snow and ice crunching beneath my feet and my own panting breaths. What had I been thinking? I had survived my entire adult life without being hunted down like a rabid monster by keeping my true heritage a secret. Most of the people I had known and worked with at Weard assumed I was a berserker or one of the Unseelie Fae. I had never gone out of my way to correct them. If anything, I encouraged the misperception because it was better and safer than allowing my true heritage to be known.
There had only been two men at Weard who knew the truth and that was because they knew me before I was recruited into Weard. One of them was dead and the other . . . Might as well have died too. The fewer people who knew the truth, the better. I knew this, I had lived with that knowledge all my life. Yet the moment Lauren suggested I was one of the berserkers, it had suddenly been so important for her to know the truth.
I scrubbed a bare hand over my face as I stopped in the shadow of one of the tumbled c
airns. Why had I done that? Myrmidons were so hated and feared that the mere possession of the knowledge I was one could potentially endanger Lauren. I hung my head, a groan escaping me, as I recalled anew the surge of need for Lauren to not think I was one of the undisciplined and untrustworthy berserkers. The way she had been looking at me with fear and concern that I was going to act against her, but cared too much to leave me alone had pierced my determination to keep her from knowing the truth of my heritage. All I had wanted was to assure her that she didn’t need to worry that I was a berserker or going through drug withdrawal. But when she pleaded for me to tell her the truth and promised her only concern was her desire to help me, I had slipped. And then, when I told her . . .
She hadn’t believed me. I could see it in her eyes. The disbelief, the shock, and I had not been able to bring myself to wait for those emotions to change to hate and disgust. Just the thought of seeing that change in the way she looked at me was . . . unbearable. So, I had abandoned the cottage to avoid the final rejection.
Another groan escaped me as I moved away from the cairn venturing into the glen. Lauren had broken my resolve in many ways and now I turned coward because I didn’t want her rejection. Like some lovestruck boy who would rather walk an extra mile out of his way to avoid his crush while she walked to school with her current boyfriend. Pathetic.
It would be a good thing for Lauren to reject me for my heritage. The words had a hollow taste to them even without speaking them out loud, but I refused to give in to the urge to go back and try to explain to Lauren that I was not . . . That I was better . . . Explain how I was not another Achilles, petulant and unpredictable, acting as a spoilt child moving from one whim to another. And that she was far more to me than a mere travelling companion. That as a Myrmidon, giving my vow of protection carried a far deeper meaning than she probably suspected. The vow that still burned through me with the pull to go back to her and resolve everything.
Flight by Numbers Page 9
